Frost
by Moonlith
Summary: The Battle of the North is over, but when one is forced away from her loved ones, Clare finds that physical safety alone does not equal peace.


I do not own Claymore.

_**Frost**_

By Moonlith

The desolate fields of barren, icy wasteland spread all around her and as far as her eyes could see. A lone, lazy breeze of light chill whizzed in the air, its low murmur sounding steadily in her ears. Small flakes of snow wafted down from the leaden sky above and covered the grim earth in a thin white blanket, while the jet-black silhouettes of the distant mountains greeted her in the horizon. Together they formed a world of vast grayscale in which all seemed still and oddly peaceful.

"Clare?"

The call of her name arrested Clare's attention from the ashen landscape. Shifting her gaze, she noticed Miria eyeing her with a questioning look. They had only moments ago ended their daily sparring routine, and nearby the other sole survivors, now mere deserters, of the War of the North were preparing to retire from their labors. Helen and Deneve, usually the most inseparable couple of them all, had this time opted to school the three more inexperienced warriors of their team instead of each other. Cynthia, Tabitha and Yuma were receiving their feedback, exhausted but also excited with the notable progress in their efforts.

Clare knew that Miria had called out to her for no other reason than to shake her from her reverie, but to be certain she decided to invite whatever further business she might have.

"What is it?"

"The group training for the day is over. Will you head back with the rest of us or do you have anything else to attend to?"

Clare took the moment before answering to once more regard the immense wintry emptiness surrounding them. Heeding the silent urge of her instincts, she quickly reached her conclusion and voiced it.

"You may go ahead of me; I will take a look around first and follow you afterwards."

Having anticipated this, Miria closed her eyes and let out the softest of sighs that signaled her slight frustration at the obstinacy of her comrade.

"Going for the usual hunt, then?"

As Clare decided that her superior's tired remark did not merit a verbal response, she gave a curt nod by a way of acknowledgement and left for her quest.

* * *

The calm serenity of the earlier afternoon had been chased away. The wind coming from the north had picked up in earnest, and now Clare found herself struggling against a blow that threatened to tear her cloak away. Her soles were beginning to feel the bite of the rough and hard ground beneath her feet. The training she'd had with Miria, the most capable warrior of their group, had left her already slightly drained from strength. Now coupled with hours of almost aimless wandering in yet another deserted corner of the northern wilderness was driving her near fatigue.

But her body was not alone in exhaustion. Within her raged a tempest that would not be wholly tamed by neither the passive crawling of time or conscious effort. And raising that emotional turmoil was unwittingly a youth of tender complexion, fiery spirit and unwavering determination beyond his scarce years.

The chance crossing of their paths was now a faraway concept in many ways. Faraway in a place to the blissful south, faraway in time many a year backwards. Their first encounter had been nothing short of an irritable squabble when the boy had for whatever reason taken an interest in the half-breed that everyone else shunned. Her attitude towards him had soon changed, however, when her assignment at that time had ended up in her killing his brother as a yoma. Instead of blaming her or swearing his hatred, the child had given his most sincere thanks and vowed eternal gratitude; something she hadn't received ever before. And as fate would have it, Clare had left the village only to be followed by the same boy whose own kin had discarded him in the aftermath.

From there on they'd walked side by side, the many hardships and dangers they faced only tightening the bond between them. And when the cursed moment of their inevitable separation came, all too sudden and unforeseen, their firmly forged alliance had rooted itself way too deep into the youth for his own good. Where she had tried to fight his resolve to stay by her side with reason and warnings, he had bested her with only stronger determination, finally offering his own life in exchange of even the slightest bit of safety to her person. Seeing that words had failed her, she'd given her oath and sent the young man away with a kiss and a prayer to a god she seldom turned to.

There were moments when Clare's rational side stepped down and she allowed herself to question if parting ways with him had truly been the only or even the best possible solution. Taking shelter from the storm under a small cliff, nursing the disappointment of yet another fruitless search and the energies of both her body and mind near spent, she was now battling with such a moment. She'd bid him farewell with his safety at the forefront of her thoughts, but where in the end had she gotten him into? Caught by slavers and sent to the north, said the source of her latest information on him.

Clare shuddered. Of course. What else was to become of a wandering boy with no one to look after him? Having experienced nearly the same fate, she herself should have expected that to happen. Now instead of helping him, she had put her young ward in a position possibly worse than hers. Clare had trustworthy companions by her side, seven of them altogether and bound by the survival from the inferno of Pieta. But what of him? Clare was loath to believe that among his captors were anyone who would've taken kindly to their prey. Yet slavery was the best fate she could hope for him at this point. Even if he had managed to escape, the northern wilderness was not a hospitable mistress to lone vagrants. And when she considered the great possibility that he had been caught in the ravages of the Silver King himself...

Gritting her teeth, Clare jammed her eyes shut and refused to take the thought further.

* * *

"Raki, was it?"

Clare did not know how long she'd been hiding from the storm. Her dark musings had carried her away from reality, and at the sudden voice above her she instantly snapped her eyes open and turned her head to confront the speaker. The tension was lifted as she found Cynthia smiling down at her, her long plaits resting on her chest.

Noticing the look of slight bafflement at her question still lingering on Clare's features, she patiently clarified:

"The name of the boy you're so relentlessly looking for, that is."'

Clare's face hardened from dumb confusion to mild irritation as she answered, leaving no doubt whether it was a topic she wanted to discuss.

"It is no business of yours."

Cynthia didn't seem to be distressed by her comrade's cold words as she continued, the bright smile never leaving her face:

"I apologize if I offended you in some way, it was not my intention."

Clare's anger subsided as quickly as it had lit. Suddenly feeling a pang of shame for lashing out at her friend like that, she promptly offered peace herself:

"No, it is I who has to beg your pardon. My anger was for myself for not hearing your coming. You're very stealthy, you know." She light heartily complimented her to recompense for her earlier words and continued: "But what are you doing all the way out here, shouldn't you be with the others?"

"Oh, I was just bored and kind of thought I could as well check out some places."

As Cynthia wasn't even bothering to put up an act or craft a plausible excuse, Clare soon judged that she'd been sent by Miria. However, as the day's trials had begun to weigh down upon her and she remembered her uncalled for behavior only moments ago, Clare skipped her annoyance with a quiet snort and kept her silence.

Taking her companion's restraint as an encouraging sign, Cynthia decided to pursue the earlier conversation once more.

"I have actually been admiring your steadfast attitude towards finding him. I mean, it has already been so long since you two last saw each other, and still you hold on to your conviction. I'm not sure if I could ever be capable of such determination. It's just so…wow!" Cynthia trailed off, giving a meek chuckle at her own ineptitude for words.

Clare did not catch her jest, however, as her attention was focused on the other aspects of Cynthia's speech.

Steadfast? Conviction? Determination? Now that she thought about it, Clare understood that was how she must have seemed to the people around her. Not once in all their long years of exile had she let go of her vision of finding him. Town after town she scoured the deserted north, chasing after a loved one whose existence was fading into oblivion. Yet despite her lack of success thus far, she never displayed even the slightest sign of agitation. Never would a trickle of tear stain her cheeks nor a crestfallen look betray her placid features. Even her voice remaining an icy monotone as she spoke, Clare's appearance was a stoic mask of rock hard determination at all times.

But it was not that she didn't hurt at all inside. She wasn't tormented by great agony, for she remembered their promise and knew she would hold on to it for as long as she lived. But the pain she did feel was no less treacherous. Each and every time she set out for her search she could feel a flame of excitement ignite within her chest; again she would seek him from a new area, again she would be that much closer to finding him. Consequently, with each and every disappointment that flame grew smaller, even if only a tiny bit. Frustration was a needle that pricked at her hope, and as time passed, her quests began to turn from confident endeavors to something akin to a force of habit.

"_I really wish..."_

Cynthia, having let her attention lapsed when Clare had sunken deep into her own thoughts, whirled at the mumbled words of her comrade. Afraid that she might've missed something important, she quickly urged her to repeat herself.

"I really wish it would be as simple as you make it sound." She said, with a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

At a loss of words, all that Cynthia could do for a while was to blink and stare. Despite her higher rank as the Organization's former warrior, she had understood her position among the more seasoned members of their group. Now, in a situation where someone she'd looked up to was showing the slightest sign of fragility, a few hurried and stumbling words were all that Cynthia could muster for a response.

"W-what are you saying? You're always so unwavering and all, no way you could-"

"Yes, yes, of course I'm not giving up, relax." Clare cut her off shortly, with a quick breath that was the closest thing to a laugh that Cynthia had ever seen from her.

Hearing Cynthia's sputtered reply to her short and quiet monologue, Clare understood she was not the one with whom she could share the matters of her heart, even if she'd wanted to. But strangely enough, Clare did not find herself the least bit irated or depressed by her companion's ignorance. Cynthia catching her off guard in a moment of silent contemplation was all that there was to it. In the same way, a few rushed observations of a cheerful comrade were enough of a reminder for her. The mists of brooding cleared from her head, Clare jumped to her feet and assumed a tone of command in her voice as she spoke:

"I believe we've both had enough of sightseeing for today. It is high time for both of us to head back to the camp, lest we worry the others. Come, Cynthia."

And with that, Cynthia followed as Clare stepped away from the sheltering rock and out of her menial doubts to face the frost of winter.

* * *

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A/N: Just a little companion piece to an earlier story of mine called Mourning Sun.


End file.
